Bringing Sunshine (1148 words)

As I entered the room, I saw a frail old man on the bed with a week's unshaven stubble, hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. The bed seemed very large for his tiny frame. He was looking vacantly at the ceiling. I had walked in softly, and yet, to my surprise, he turned his eyes towards me, showing his alertness. He peered at me through his glassy eyes as if questioning my intrusion in his private space

The nurse, Omana, as seen on the name tag, warned me that his left side was paralysed and that his speech was affected. As if these were not sufficient, he had a very weak heart and impaired kidneys. He was brought from a senior home when he developed difficulty breathing. Several tubes were protruding from his body, and he was on oxygen. I could gather from the nurse that his condition was very critical and that doctors were just making him comfortable, with no scope for treatment

" I feel sorry for him, as he has no relatives or friends to visit him except occasionally the staff of the home. I think he is a rich man and can afford the best treatment if only his condition permitted. Sadly, it is not so, and I cannot say when the end will come, maybe, in a day or a week or a month,” Omana continued.

“I am very sorry to hear about his condition. He looks almost like my grandpa in his last days. Incidentally, I am Sweta, studying in Class 12 in ARM High School,” I replied

“I am happy you will be coming to the hospital as part of your extracurricular programme. While you may be going to many wards, please do make an effort to spend a few minutes at least with this patient. It pains me to see him lonely in what seem to be his last days,” she suggested.

“To be frank, I do not like visiting hospitals. It is not that I am afraid of catching infections that is spread all over there. But what repels me is the smell of chloroform mixed with pungent phenyl, the gloomy ambience with death stalking every ward, the sad and concerned faces and the groans of patients in pain. I could not refuse when my principal suggested that I do some social work in a hospital to add credit to my CV."

I made it a point to spend about ten minutes with him three or four days a week. After a couple of days, I could see a sign of recognition, with his eyes widening and a pucker breaking on his crooked lips. I always drew the chair by his side, held his right hand so I could move or caress his arm or adjust the bedsheet. He would just look at me through his distant eyes or press my hand to express his warmth.

I didn’t know what to talk to him about or what interested him. On the second day, I told him. “I am Sweta in class 12, thatha (grandpa). I visit the hospital as part of my curriculum. As you look very much like my thatha, I wish to spend a few minutes every time I come here. Every morning when I pray, I pray for you too.”

He tightened his grip on my hand, and I saw tears trickling from his eyes. I rushed to wipe them, telling him, “Do not cry, thatha. I like you and would be with you often”

He signalled with his right hand that he wanted water. As I was filling the cup, Omana entered and snatched the cup from my hand.” He cannot take fluids more than half a litre daily. Do not give without checking with me,” she admonished. I felt she was harsh, unaware that she was professional in her duty. When he saw my sad face, he pressed my hand as if to say it is okay.

These days, I went almost daily only to meet him. His head would be turned towards the door from 4 pm, when I usually visited him. I would talk to him about my friends, teachers, parents, my interest in studies and my good rank.

One day, when I spoke about my desire to do engineering and the bleak chances, he raised his eyebrows to ask why.

” My dad cannot afford the fees. I must be content to do a simple graduation. It is fine with me,” I said with a wry smile.

He became silent thereafter and closed his eyes. I felt I had made a mistake in mentioning my problem to a sick man. I lingered for a few minutes, and seeing his eyes closed, I left silently.

Three days later, I brought a bunch of flowers. As I entered his room, I greeted “Thatha, look at these beautiful flowers. I am keeping them on the table for you to see. It is my birthday today”. I saw a flicker of happiness in his eyes before they became expressionless.

Just then, Omana entered his room and whispered, “Shhhhh, he is not well. Please wait outside.” She then administered an injection and increased the speed of oxygen.

I felt like crying when she came out after a few minutes and put her hands on me. “Do not feel bad. His condition has deteriorated, and we will be shifting him to the ICU presently and putting him on life support. From what I learn, his end is very near,” she said.

When I could not control sobbing loudly, she said, “You have been a sunshine at the end of his life. I could see a change in him after you started visiting him. If only he could speak freely, he would have told you what difference you made to him. Incidentally, he asked about you and your details about a week back. I wrote the details from our records and gave them to him”

“Can I go inside and sit with him without talking for two minutes?” I asked

His eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily. His legs were swollen. He looked very sick. I left immediately as nurses and a stretcher on wheels came in.

The next day, when I entered the ward with all sorts of fears, Omana stopped me and said, “Your thatha, Selvadurai, is no more. He breathed his last at midnight.” As I stifled the cry breaking out, she said, “I am equally sad.”

I stopped visiting the hospital and tried to get over the grief

A fortnight later, I overheard my dad talking to someone on the phone, “Yes, Sweta is my daughter and a student of ARM school. Did you say you are the lawyers for one Selvadurai? ….Yes Sir. We will both come this evening as desired.”

Tears inexplicably swelled in my eyes.

Kindness like a boomerang always returns.

 

Believe it or not….it happened to Mukul (926 words)

This incident happened in the mid-1980s !!!

Mukul spent all his evenings in what one might consider an unusual place. It was a large open space that could hardly be called a park, though it was well lit and had plenty of flowering plants and small trees. The ground was covered with green grass, with neatly laid pathways and convenient concrete benches on which one could comfortably recline.it was in Kalighat.

Most people came there for a purpose, and very few came simply to idle away their time despite the pleasant surroundings. The architecture of the few buildings might initially suggest a temple, but they actually housed a crematorium. The municipal corporation had transformed what was once a dingy, dark and dirty place into a surprisingly beautiful one. The smell of burning bodies, though it assailed his nose, did not deter Mukul from visiting the place.

It was not that Mukul was given to melancholy or a negative mindset. The place was close to his house and offered a convenient escape from the constant wrath of his father.

It was not his fault that no one had offered him a job. His old father berated him daily and even suggested that he take up manual labour if necessary to earn a few rupees. But his kindly mother would intervene and insist that her son would work only in an office.

A graduate, Mukul had no particular skill except playing carrom. Unemployed young men like him played at the street corner in the evenings under a light whose electricity was stolen from the main box. Mukul was popular among them, but even he had to leave when he could no longer afford his share of the tea and samosas whenever his turn came.

It was past dusk one evening. There were not many people around. One group had just completed the cremation rituals and was preparing to leave. At the gate, another group was entering. There were many men and women, all in tears.

Mukul sat in a bench in a far corner, idly watching the movement of the people and the body being carried on the shoulders of a few young men.

It was then that he noticed a tall, dark figure draped in a black shawl approaching him.

Mukul sat up with a start.

The figure spoke in a soft but gruff voice.

“Do not fear. I need an instant favour from you. Please do not refuse. A life depends on it.”

Mukul was not afraid.

“Tell me,” he said.

“It is like this. There has been a goof-up by my assistants. The man whose body has just been brought in is not destined to die now. His time is much later. It was a case of mistaken identity—a big blunder by my men.”

Before he could finish, Mukul interrupted him.

“Who are you? You are talking as if you are Yama Dharma Raja! Why are you playing such pranks when people are already grieving? Please go away. I have no time for you.”

“No. Just look at me for a second,” the figure said.

Mukul looked, and froze.

The stranger was sitting astride a dark buffalo. He had a large moustache, protruding bulbous eyes and a rope in his hand.

Involuntarily, Mukul stood up and prostrated himself with folded hands.

“Young man, get up,” said Yama. “I am infusing life into that body. Please rush to the people there and tell them he is alive and must not be burned. They may not believe you. They may even beat you. But please persist. Ask them to have him examined by a doctor if necessary.”

“I will, Sir,” Mukul said. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he asked, “What will you give me for this favour?”

Yama smiled.

“I know your need. You may apply to the Municipal Corporation for an assistant’s job in this crematorium. It will be done.”

And with that, he vanished.

As the relatives were getting ready to consign the body to the flames after completing the rituals, Mukul rushed towards them, shouting:

“Hold on! Do not burn him. He is not dead. He is alive!”

They were all baffled. They looked at him in disbelief, as though he had lost his mind.

A couple of young men caught hold of him and rained blows on him. But Mukul continued shouting:

“You can beat me as much as you like. But please do not burn him. Call a doctor and have him examined. I say this with reliable authority: he is not dead!”

An old man in the group shouted at the young men, “Stop it! Go and fetch a doctor nearby. I want instant action.”

He then turned to Mukul and asked softly, “You know we are all in great grief at the loss of my young son. What made you say this? Be frank.”

Mukul narrated what had happened and described the strange vision he had seen before it disappeared. He said he could not ignore it because a human life was possibly at stake.

A doctor examined the body and detected a faint heartbeat and a weak pulse.

Things happened swiftly. The young man was rushed to a hospital.

Mukul was rewarded with ₹10,000 by the grateful family. His father turned very happy, and his mother cooked a special fish delicacy for him.

And, needless to say, Mukul got the job too.

He now oversees the crematorium as an office assistant, sitting comfortably under a fan at his own table and chair—exactly as his mother had always wanted.

 

The Lesson She Learnt (863 words)

“Sarasa, the fan in the room is not running well. It is fifteen years old and hardly works anymore. It is very hot and sultry at night. I am unable to sleep,” said Meenakshi to her daughter-in-law.

“Why, it is running all right?” replied Sarasa with a touch of irritation in her voice.

“Yes, it runs, but very slowly, and no air is coming,” said the old lady

“Ok, let me see, but not this month, as we have many commitments like school fees, insurance, etc. Maybe I will get a new one next month or the one thereafter.”

“This is midsummer. The weather is very oppressive. That is why I mentioned it,” she said hesitantly.

“What can I do for that? All of us are suffering. It is impossible to stand in the kitchen even for five minutes. Keep the windows open,” Sarasa replied as she hastily went out.

She saw her 15-year-old daughter Lavanya standing outside the door with a glass of chilled Coke in her hand. She asked, “When did you come from school? How long have you been standing here? You are perspiring a lot”

“I just now came from school. Heard you talking to grandma, so came here,” Lavanya replied

“That is alright. Go to your room, switch on the AC and rest a while. I will get something for you to eat,” Sarasa said.

“Amma, I don’t want anything. But I want your permission to go on an excursion arranged in the school for three days. Mummy, please do not say no,” Lavanya pleaded.

“Which place? How many days? How much are you required to pay? “Sarasa asked

“Three days at Kodaikanal. Just Rs 3000. Tomorrow is the last day for payment. All my classmates are going, and our teachers are accompanying us. It is safe, Amma,” Lavanya said.

“It is okay. I will just mention it to your dad. You can pay the money tomorrow. You are lucky as you will escape this hot place at least for a few days. The woollen sweater you have is old. It will be cold there. We can buy a new one this evening itself ,” Sarasa said.

She expected the girl to jump in joy and hug her. Instead, Lavanya looked at her with disappointment and left without a word for her room. She switched off the AC, switched on the fan and adjusted the regulator to the minimum speed.

Perplexed at the strange behaviour of her daughter, Sarasa entered the room with a plate of sandwiches. She saw Lavanya on the bed with her face buried in the pillow. “Why have you switched off the AC? The fan is also moving at a snail’s pace. What is wrong with you? Aren’t you happy that I permitted you to go on an excursion? You behave strangely,” said Sarasa

“Amma, leave me alone. You don’t have to switch on the AC or increase the speed of the fan. I will keep the windows open and rest,” the girl said

Sarasa did not fail to notice the taunt in her voice and was certain the girl must have overheard her talking to her mother-in-law. “I know what you are trying to say. You are not behaving as young girls should do. I hate people eavesdropping on the conversations of others,” admonished Sarasa

“I did not eavesdrop. You were talking so loudly I could hear you even from the living room. Whatever it is, I hate you. I am not going for any excursion. I don’t need your money when you have so many commitments to meet,” said Lavanya with tears trickling down her cheeks.

When Sarasa looked at her daughter in disbelief, the girl continued, saying, “You cannot bear your daughter to be uncomfortable even for a few minutes and want me to have the AC and the fan at full speed. But you are so insensitive to the great discomfort Grandma is experiencing both day and night. You did not think for a minute before you offered to pay me the money I asked for the excursion and also get a new sweater. But when it came to Grandma, you were weighed down by the commitments. I never knew you could be this hard-hearted to an old person. I am ashamed of you.”

Sarasa felt overwhelmed with shame and guilt at her behaviour towards her mother-in-law. She rang the electrical store and asked them to send a new, superior-quality fan immediately, along with a mechanic to fix it.

She went to her mother-in-law and touched her feet, pleading for a pardon. The old lady was perplexed, unable to understand what brought about the change. She, however, ran her hand over her head and said, “Don’t be silly. You did not utter anything hurtful. You only pleaded for more time to change the fan. I am accustomed to living even without a fan, as I have spent many years in the village without electricity. Wipe your tears and go happily”

Sarasa came out of the room teary-eyed but chastened by the experience. She decided to fix an AC too.

The way we treat the vulnerable reveals the true measure of our compassion.

 

Don’t Look at Me That Way (958 words)

 

Don’t look at me that way. I get upset. I am perfectly normal, like any one of you, no matter what others may say about me. There have been a few accidents in the last year for which I was in no way responsible. You can ask my mom, and she will vouch for my sobriety. Though in the last two months she has become strangely quiet and looks concerned. There is a reason which I shall explain.

I have always been an introvert and not given to much talking. My mother used to admire my large, dark eyes, saying they resembled lotuses. But most others were jealous and accused me of staring or gawking at them even when I was merely looking. This naturally made me angry, and either I would shout at them or sometimes scratch them with my long nails.

It began when I was 12. But I looked bigger and slightly older than many of my classmates. Our science teacher was unusually gentle with me. He patted the girls when returning their homework books or gently touched their cheeks to express his appreciation. I felt his hands lingered a little longer on me than on others and invariably got a feeling of a cockroach running over me. I used to shrug away, and he would laugh. I feared telling my mom lest she withdraw me from the school. 

One day, as I was leaving for home after school hours, he was standing at the entrance of the staff room. He beckoned me inside, saying he had something to tell me. I found the room was empty, and I was scared to enter. He put his arms around me and dragged me close to him. I struggled to get out of his clasp, but he embraced me tighter.  Luckily, I had my pen in my hand with me and opening the cap, I stabbed him hard with the pen and its sharp nib several times on his neck and face. As he loosened his grip, I ran away as fast as my feet would carry.

 My timid mother, instead of complaining to the school authorities, stopped me from going to school at the insistence of my paternal grandmother, who was living with us. My dad worked in another town and visited once a month. All my friends stopped talking to me since then. Other schools refused to accept me.

With nothing much to do, I did most of the chores to help my mom. My grandmother disliked my mom and would always hurt her with insults and her poor background. She would carry tales to my dad when he came home with many false charges. The couple of days he spent with her would be torture for my mom, with him beating her. I developed a deep dislike for my granny ever since she stopped my studies and frequently quarreled with her, taking cudgels for my mom.

 One day I was cleaning the bathroom and found it slippery. I sprinkled soap powder and was scrubbing with a brush. I left it midway when my mother called me to fetch water from the well. As ill luck would have it, Grandma meanwhile went inside to take her bath and fell flat. She had a severe injury on the head and was in a coma for a fortnight before breathing her last. My dad accusingly pointed his finger at me for her tragic demise and never failed to mention that I did not shed any tears for her.

Two months later, my dad’s brother came for the first time after my grandma’s demise. He called me a killer and a madcap. I was naturally hurt as I was in no way directly responsible for grandma’s fall. When I resisted his accusation, he hit me. I suppressed my anger and went inside the kitchen. I had stored the cleaner liquid in a mineral water bottle as no other container was readily available. I normally use it for cleaning the cupboard and electrical parts. How can I be held responsible if my uncle drank from that bottle, mistaking it for water? He had to be rushed to the emergency room and given repeated washes before he recovered, after incurring a hefty bill that included ICU charges. He accused me of wishing to kill him too, making my dad lose his temper and shower blows on me.

Another instance comes to my mind. My dad had come for a week. My mom had gone to the temple, and I was away at the neighbour’s house. When I returned unannounced, I caught my dad hugging and cuddling our maid. I was shocked at this monstrosity and retraced my steps unnoticed. I then thumped the front door hard as if I was entering the house just then.

 A week later, the maid, who had taken the leftover rice soaked in water and buttermilk, vomited many times at her place. She was taken to the hospital by her neighbours but could not be saved. The doctors, it seemed, said it was a case of food poisoning by a lizard. I did not tell anyone that I had seen a long object in the rice; I mistook it for a cooked eggplant vegetable. My dad was saddest, and my mother wondered at his compassion for bearing the hospital expenses in full.

I have been frank and truthful to you. Tell me now whether I am insane, as others accuse me of. My mom hardly talks to me these days, and Dad rarely comes home. Do you think I need help from a shrink? I strongly believe that they were all accidents, though there was a vicarious pleasure in them.

I expect your honest reply.

The Five-Hundred-Rupee Note (891 words)

 

The Williamsons had been a happy couple until one day their adopted son, seven-year-old Ramon, asked the inevitable question.

They had always known that, sooner or later, he would want to know where he had come from. Ramon was Raman in the records at the adoption centre in India. Until then, they had tried to shield him from his past as much as possible, bringing him up like any other American child.

They had given him everything a well-to-do American family could provide: fancy video games, remote-controlled cars, countless board games, a bicycle and a manual scooter that occupied a good part of his room. He attended karate classes, swimming lessons and soccer practice. He was learning to play the clarinet. Except for the colour of his skin and his Indian features, he was, in every respect, a thoroughly American boy, mingling with his friends without the slightest inhibition.

Now, however, he wanted to know about his biological parents and why he had been given up for adoption.

It was simple curiosity. He was less than a year old when he was left at the adoption centre. Ramon had no desire to leave his adoptive parents or return to the real parents or the life he had never known. He loved the Williamsons deeply and made them proud with his excellent grasp, sporting abilities and exemplary behaviour. They, in turn, adored him and would do anything to keep him happy.

Ordinarily, adoptive parents were reluctant to encourage contact with birth families, out of w fear of uncovering unpleasant or even traumatic truths. But the Williamsons decided that their son deserved to know his roots.

The adoption centre, however, refused to disclose the identity of his biological parents. It was against their policy. After considerable persuasion, they obtained only two pieces of information: the year when Ramon was brought to the centre and the name of the small town he belonged.

Most people would have stopped there. But the Williamsons did not.

They hired a company that specialised in tracing the biological families of adopted children. The fees were substantial, but the company had an impressive record. Its investigators knew how to piece together fragments from adoption-centre employees, police records, orphanage registers and old local contacts. Sometimes they went from door to door, questioning people who might remember a child, a woman or an incident from years ago. It could take months, even years.

After almost a year, the Williamsons received the call they had been waiting for.

They travelled to India with Ramon, ostensibly on holiday to the country of his birth. They had not told him about their search. Nor did they tell him what they had discovered.

At the hotel, a representative of the tracing company met the couple privately in the dining hall. Ramon was not with them. He was swimming in the hotel pool.

The information was disturbing.

The investigators had traced his biological mother, though only after considerable difficulty.

Ramon was an illegitimate child. The woman could not or would not identify his father. She had lived by selling her body for food. She remembered leaving the child at the adoption centre, but apparently felt no remorse. To her, the child had been one more burden she could no longer carry.

The investigator had found her begging at the entrance to a local temple in that town.

The description was difficult to absorb. She was thin and haggard, possibly her once well-defined face ravaged by hunger and years of abuse. Her long hair was matted and unwashed. A torn, dirty red sari barely covered her body.

The Williamsons verified every detail. The tracing company had a reputation to protect, and they were convinced the information was genuine.

They decided they would see her once, though from a distance.

They had no intention of approaching her. And, above all, they agreed that Ramon should never be told. They felt that some truths, however important, could destroy more than they healed.

That evening, they took Ramon to the temple.

He was delighted by everything he saw: the towering gopurams, the temple chariot, the crowds and, most of all, the elephant. He stopped repeatedly to take photographs, fascinated as the huge animal accepted coins from visitors and ate pieces of coconut.

At the entrance sat a long line of beggars.

The Williamsons walked slowly along the row, dropping ten-rupee notes into the bowls before each beggar.

Then they reached her.

There was no doubt. She was unmistakably the woman they had been searching for from faint resemblance.

For a moment, the couple stood silently before her. They looked at the face of the woman who had given birth to their adopted son—a face marked by poverty, hunger, and a life neither of them could imagine.

Then, without saying a word, each one of the couple dropped a five-hundred-rupee note into her bowl.

They moved on.

Ramon was at the temple precincts. He was standing beside the temple elephant, watching in awe as it curled its trunk around a coconut.

He never saw the woman. He never knew that, a few steps behind him, his adoptive parents had just stood before the woman who had given him life. And the woman never knew that the cheerful little boy watching the elephant was the son she had once left behind.

 

 

The Lesson I Learnt on Charity (682 words)

I had known that elderly woman, Sarala mami (aunty), even before my marriage. She used to visit my mother’s home. Once, she had belonged to a middle-class family, but circumstances had slowly pushed them into hardship. She had a gentle, dignified face but one that carried the quiet traces of a life filled with struggles.

Sarala mami had three daughters. Somehow, she had managed to settle two of them in life. The family were struggling now, and whatever they earned was barely enough to meet their daily needs. Now the third daughter had to be married, but there was no money.

Mami had been going from one familiar door to another, seeking whatever help she could find. She had obtained my address from my mother and come to see me. My mother had called me beforehand.

“If you can, please help her with some money, or buy her some clothes. Poor woman… they were once in a good position, and now they are undergoing much hardship,” she had said.

I spoke to my husband on the phone and gave mami ₹5,000, along with a silk saree I had at home.

“Please stay and have a cup of coffee before you leave,” I told her.

She was overwhelmed with happiness. She hugged me, tears welling up in her eyes.

“I must have done some good deed in a previous life to receive the affection of someone as kind as you,” she said.

A little later, while I was inside readying coffee, I heard a voice at the doorway.

“Amma…”

I went out to see who it was.

It was my flower seller selling flowers at the entrance of the Ganesha temple.

“Amma, my husband suddenly had severe chest pain. I’ve admitted him to the government hospital. I need ₹2,000 for the expenses. I’m trying to collect a little from several people I know. I couldn’t muster much.  I’ll repay you later by giving you flowers. Please give me whatever you can.”

I hesitated.

“I’m very busy with work right now. My husband isn’t home either. Come later. We’ll see,” I said, politely but firmly. 

I didn’t know whether her story was true. And frankly, I had a petty grouse that she never let me bargain and was curt about her price. No doubt her flowers were always fresh and good.

Without giving her time to continue, I went back inside to prepare the coffee.

A little while later, I heard voices at the entrance. When I stepped outside, I saw Sarala mami giving the flower seller ₹200.

A sharp irritation rose within me.

I felt that mami, whom I had just helped, was taking the charity amount as her own and passing it on to the flower seller.

“Mami, I gave that money to you because you needed it very much. How can you give it away like this?” I asked, rather sharply.

The elderly woman looked at me quietly.

“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t know whether that woman was telling the truth or not. But what if she really was in deep trouble? What if something happened to her husband for want of money because I refused to help her? I was afraid of that. I know personally what it feels like to struggle, and I simply couldn’t bear to turn her away.”

She folded her hands.

“Please forgive me. I beg you.”

My anger disappeared immediately.

“Oh, please don’t say that. I should have helped her myself. I was only worried that you were giving away the money you needed most. Here, take another ₹1,000. Everything will be all right.”

As an afterthought, I asked her, " Mami, if you meet the flower seller at the end of the road, please ask her to see me immediately.”

That day, I learnt a simple lesson: kindness is not diminished when it is shared.

I had thought I was helping the elderly mami, but in the end, she was the one who taught me compassion.

Sometimes, the people whom we help are the very ones who help us become better human beings.

 

 

Murari’s Last Wish (765 words)

 

Murari looked clean after his shave and ​​shower. It was five in the evening, but the light was already fading. By dawn, he would be dead.

He was to be hanged early the next morning.

The jailer stopped outside his cell and looked at him through the bars.

“Dinner tonight will be your last one. If there’s anything you’d specifically like to eat, tell me. I’ll see if I can have it made.”

“No,” Murari said quietly. “I have no such wish. I’d rather skip dinner.”

“Have something. Don’t go to the gallows on an empty stomach.” The jailer paused. “Do you have any last wish? If it’s reasonable, I may be able to arrange it.”

Murari looked at him for a moment.

“Yes. I have one wish. If you can grant it, I would be beholden to you.”

“Tell me. I’ll try.”

“I want to meet the judge who condemned me. Just for two minutes.”

The jailer stared at him. “Oh, that may be difficult. He may not agree to meet you. I’m almost certain he won’t. It has never happened. If you have a message for him, though, I can pass it on.”

“Please tell him this,” Murari said. “I will leave this world peacefully if I can meet him for even one minute. I’ll remain behind the iron bars. I can be shackled, if he wishes. Let him have no fear. I only want to tell him one small thing.”

The jailer studied his face. “I’ll try,” he said at last. “Though I’m not sanguine about the outcome.”

To Murari’s surprise, the judge arrived at eight that evening.

Murari was brought to the visitors’ enclosure. He stood behind the wire-mesh partition, his hands shackled before him.

“Can I have a minute or two alone with the judge?” he asked.

The jailer hesitated for a fraction of a second before moving away with the constables far enough to give them privacy.

“What is it you wanted to tell me?” asked the judge.

Murari looked at him steadily. “Do you remember my case, Sir?”

“Yes. I reviewed it before coming here. You can speak.”

“Just this, Sir. I will be dead by dawn tomorrow, so I have no reason to lie to you. I am not guilty. I did not commit any criminal act. I swear to God that what I am telling you is the truth.”

The judge’s expression hardened.

“The case established that you killed a helpless woman after she rejected your advances. You were found at the scene with the murder weapon. The police had an ironclad case against you.”

“You knew who killed her,” Murari said.

The judge frowned. Who killed her?”

“You did. “You killed and no one else.”

  A silence fell before the judge’s face hardened, but Murari continued.

“You had abducted that woman in your car and taken her to a secluded place. You were trying to molest her. I happened to see you through the window. She saw me and screamed for help.”

Murari swallowed.

“I was fully drunk that night. Barely able to stand. I tried to help her by pulling you away, but I was no match for you. In the melee, she kicked you on your face hard. In extreme rage, you shot her. Then you struck me on the head and put the gun in my hand.”

The judge said nothing.

“You called the police yourself, from a booth nearby. You made sure they found me beside her body, with the weapon in my hand. By the time they arrived, you were long gone.”

Murari gave a bitter smile.

“My government-appointed lawyer didn’t believe me either. And then, by the cruellest twist of fate, my case came before you.”

The judge finally spoke. “Bad luck for you.”

He stepped closer to the partition. “But good luck for me. No one knew the truth.”

He paused, then smiled coldly. “Tell me, do you have a family?”

Murari said nothing.

“If you do,” the judge continued, “tell me who they are. I’ll see that they are taken care of.”

His smile widened. “Goodbye, Murari,” he said, waving his hand

Murari’s eyes remained fixed on him. “My last wish,” he said softly, “was not simply to meet you.”

The judge stopped.

“I wanted this conversation recorded.”

For the first time, the judge’s face went pale.

Murari leaned towards the partition.

“You will have your retribution.”

Then, before the judge could step back, Murari spat through the mesh and walked away quickly.

For the first time in years, he smiled. He no longer feared the dawn.